As usual, I didn’t even want to go to the Strawberry Festival, but our dog trainer encouraged me to attend with my dog, Bubby, because he needs the exposure. Also, my wife reminded me that attending the SF is one of those implied duties of a faithful spouse. So my mind was made up.

On Saturday, my wife Margaret left the house early without breakfast to take her daughter to town for the parade, while I made some delicious coffee and enjoyed a leisurely meal. Bubby and I took our time because any marriage counselor will tell you it’s important to make time for yourselves on the weekend.

We arrived and parked the car on the highway about 15 minutes before the parade was scheduled to start. Fortunately, the schedule was largely imaginary because Bubby and I had to walk in about two miles from our parking place.

I remember the hike really well, and the first float, which I think was a train or a fire engine, but after that my memory was compromised by a blow on the head from a thrown lollypop, so the rest of my report may appear a bit scattered.

It may also appear scattered because I was stressed about keeping Bubby under control. He did really well around the people (and the food they dropped) but he was a little short with some of the big dogs who wanted to check him out. At one point, one of the guide dogs came up from behind and tried to sniff his posterior. As pleasurable as that may sound, Bubby did not take kindly. I responded with a quick controlling maneuver, but not before one of our Island’s many attorneys clicked a photo of me with her cell phone. I am guessing that festivals offer many opportunities for potential litigation.

What I remember about the floats is that they were a little different this year. For instance, the Old Guys On Tractors Club seemed to include a lot of young-looking people this time. Also, the Pirates football float was pulled by Lewis Roggenbuck rather than Glacier Northwest, which meant we could applaud for both the team and the guys pulling the float!

But there were a couple of things that threw me off. One was the Pirate band’s selection of “On, Wisconsin.” Okay, so it’s another “W” state, but … And then there was the second fire engine that we discovered later was actually in the middle of the parade. We assumed it signaled the end until Margaret noticed another marching group about three blocks back. It was a bunch of politicians who had fielded about as many candidates for the parade as the town did parade-watchers. I actually saw one of the politicians marching in the wrong direction. I won’t tell you who that was, but his/her name is followed with an (R).

The Thriftway precision shopping cart team was impeccable this year, and fortunately we were near the end of the parade route so their carts had already been emptied of the canned goods that they threw to the crowd. I could not have stood another whack on the head.

Shortly after, there was a large gap — “dead time,” as they call it in the radio business — that we thought for sure meant the parade was finally over. Bubby and I wandered off to use the little boy’s room/bush and just as we were done, we heard the sultry rhythms of the samba dancers. If you didn’t see them, you should have, because they are a team of charming and scantily clad ladies doing provocative dances, who appeared to have been accompanied this time by at least one topless guy.

The parade “finally” ended with some aging rock stars on the back of a truck, and we wandered off to check out the 148 off-Island vendors and the 16 on-Island vendors. There were also a lot of on-Island bands playing, although we noticed that most of them seemed to be composed of the same musicians.

Our favorite, The Church House Band from the Church of Great Rain, announced that they had to cancel because their drummer had a gig with another band in the same time slot.

Just in case this happens again, I’d like to offer my services as a stand-in musician. I don’t play anything, but I figure the others can cover for me. By that time, I should be able to take off this bandage on my forehead.

— Greg Wessel is a geologist and curator

of Two Wall Gallery.